Malik has been staring at the chess board for the past half an hour when he hears movement in the foyer. He has a moment to collect himself before the object of his thoughts appears, arrogant as ever and flushed with victory.

"The herald was indeed working for the Templars," Altair states without preamble, pulling his hood off. "He named several contacts in the city that I will seek out tomorrow." His words rush out of him, and Malik sees that same eagerness, that hunger for praise, from their time as novices.

"And was he treated fairly under the Creed?" Malik leans back in his seat to regard the other man.

"He was not an innocent," Altair responds obliquely. He is taking slow, deep breaths and his eyes are bright and unfocused as he relives the thrill of the hunt.

"And neither am I." Malik pushes his chair back from the small table and rises to his feet. He approaches Altair, who watches him with as much wariness as his distracted state will allow. "But you are, are you not, brother?" he says softly, knowingly. He tilts his head up at the taller man, watches his eyes flash with indignation – and something else.

"I don't know what you mean – " he protests in his haughtiest tone, and Malik has foreseen this as well. For some things do not change with time or rank; and Altair cannot bear the thought that his rival knows something that he does not.

The flow of heated words stutters to a halt when Malik places his hand over the other man's heart. He can see memory bloom behind Altair's eyes, feels his pulse begin to race again.

"There is no shame in admitting ignorance, brother," he purrs, "only in doing nothing to correct it." He spreads his fingers as wide as they will go, and Altair draws in a shaky breath.

"He that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow," Altair murmurs as if he knows he should pull away. Instead he leans further into the touch, wanting those five points burned into his flesh.

"Little did I know I was consorting with a philosopher," Malik says lightly before growing serious. "Sometimes the knowledge outweighs the price."

"And that price is sorrow?"

"Damnation." Malik gives him a long, measuring look, then whispers, "But it is worth it."

This is not a challenge or a dare, nothing so base as that. Instead, he gambles on that odd streak of subservience, that reflexive obedience to authority, that Altair has yet to recognize in himself. Malik purses his lips: this lack of insight is dangerous, a weakness to be exploited – by Al Mualim, and now, by him.

He summons up his best impersonation of their Mentor – wise, reasoned, certain that Altair will bend to his will – and says quietly, "You cannot escape this, but do not worry: it is nothing you cannot bear."

Altair tries to resist, he really does. But Malik's eyes are dark and deep as an oasis at night, and the warmth of that hand on his chest has been eclipsed by the heat pooling at the base of his spine, and damn it, he has to know.

Malik draws his hand away to remove his djellaba, and Altair takes this as a cue to disrobe as well. It is almost laughable: for so long Malik has watched his rival ascend the ranks of the Brotherhood faster than any before him. And now, Altair is one step behind and trying to keep up.

Allah, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.

Malik looks over once he is down to nothing but his breeches to see Altair, similarly undressed, looking at the bracer strapped to his left wrist. There is clearly some hesitancy to part with it, but Malik has no intention of bedding an armed man. He is a sinner, not a fool.

"Keep your shfrh mkhfyhif you wish," he says magnanimously. "It will not save you."

The small clicks of the hidden blade being unclasped are amplified in the quiet room. Finally his rival, the focus of his unnatural hunger, stands bared before him. Surely Malik can be forgiven for striding forward to claim those scarred lips in a bruising kiss, his one strong arm grasping the back of Altair's head and holding him in place.

As before, Malik leads and he can feel Altair struggling to let him, suppressing the innate need to be in control. He rewards his prey by licking into his mouth and along his bottom lip, remembering the surprising jolt he himself felt the first time he was touched in this way.

Malik draws back to survey his handiwork – Altair's lips are glistening and parted with his shallow breaths, and a lovely blush has spread along the sharp planes of his face. Honestly, though, it is the lost look in his eyes that compels Malik to push him down with more force than necessary, and the assassin falls with yielding grace to the cushioned floor.

He can't quite remember the details as they wrestle their breeches off without breaking contact with each other. Altair responds to him with a cautious enthusiasm that makes Malik reckless, marking that lean body with frenzied touches and bites to commemorate this first and last time.

It is both unsettling and arousing to be in charge, to direct Altair with clear, quiet tones to lie back and part his legs. He had no idea what it would mean to have this proud man obeying his commands with the same trust and precision granted their Master, and Malik is heady with it.

The dai leans down to press a soft kiss to the inside of Altair's thigh as he coats his fingers with a viscous oil. The fingers that trail down his chest, resting momentarily on his heart, before gliding slickly in the crease between his groin and hip are gentle, unassuming. It would be easy to mistake that touch for affection, but Altair is not that simple, regardless of what Malik says.

Altair tenses at the first touch at his entrance, visibly forcing himself to relax, his expression so open that Malik sucks in a breath as if he has been punched in the gut. It makes it all the more obvious that Altair – just this once – is innocent, free of responsibility. A wave of desperate longing washes over Malik: So this is the true cost of free will

Altair is anything but delicate, and he would not appreciate being treated as such. So Malik waits until the paler man's breaths slow, and the tension around his mouth eases before proceeding to stretch him with two, then three fingers. As his breath hitches, Malik peers into his eyes, black pupils limned by amber, and he is the first to look away as he removes his fingers and presses his hardness against that tight, warm heat.

"Ah," Altair draws a quick breath that ends in a hiss, "Malik, it burns."

"Accustom yourself to that sensation," Malik struggles to keep his voice controlled as he advances gradually. "There is a special hell for men like us."

Altair rolls his eyes – is now the time for theological discourse? "Do you mean assassins?" he gasps, the innocent tone at odds with his wanton posture.

"I actually meant those who do not perform a daily ablution," Malik grits out between panted breaths, "but it is true, our occupation does not help our cause."

Once he is completely seated in the other man, he cannot hold back a deep moan that could be mistaken for relief, and he wonders if Altair can tell, if those piercing eyes can go blank and find the truth. He thrusts, quick and shallow, until he hears Altair's harsh gasps and feels his altered hand curl around his hip, not resisting but asking for mercy that Malik is not inclined to grant.

Altair looks up, his features tightly controlled and teeth biting his lower lip to stifle those very sounds Malik aches to hear. So the dai reaches beneath him to brace his hand against the small of Altair's back, changing the angle and lengthening his motion so that his next thrust gets a warmer reception.

"Oh," Altair sighs, lips wrapped around the soft exclamation in a way that sends a fresh spike of heat through Malik. It is a breathy sound full of wonder and longing, the sound of a man completely defenseless – and as dangerous as Altair is, even unarmed, Malik is caught off guard by how this stokes his lust even further. He waits for the hunger to fade as he continues his deep, smooth strokes, but Altair only wraps his legs around Malik's hips with more of those inviting sounds that make Malik feel he is burning alive.

No! It is not supposed to be this way. He was to have had Altair, taken his pleasure, and be done. Done with this man, with such haram thoughts, with a god who abandoned Malik that fateful day at Solomon's Temple. Instead he is met with nothing but unbound pleasure, and he thinks he will never again know betrayal so deep.

With every thrust he sinks deeper into this chasm of want and shame, so he tries to lose himself in the pliant body beneath his, letting the pleading sounds of the other man drown out the litany in his own head. If he just makes Altair groan loud enough, beg long enough, he can forget the misery he brings upon himself.

It is like trying to extinguish flame with saltpeter.

"Ah! Malik, I can't –" Altair's voice breaks on that word, as though he has never said it before. Perhaps he never has, Malik thinks uncharitably. He watches the other man writhe, his eyes glassy, almost feverish, and he smiles.

If this is what it means to be forsaken, Malik will savor it while he can, until the true gravity of it overwhelms him.

"No, Altair," he agrees readily, his words layered with dark promise. "But I can." He grasps Altair's member and tightens his hand to hide the tremble when he hears his name moaned like a prayer and profanity combined.

Altair is no stranger to pleasure – he has taken himself in hand plenty of times before – but he is amazed at the unfamiliar sounds pulled from him in a voice that he can barely recognize as his own. Malik's hand is relentless, twisting around him in a way that should have already been part of his own arsenal, and he feels both indebted to and resentful of the other man, even as he cries his release.

"Ah, ah, brother! I am undone!" Malik shivers as his own thoughts are echoed back to him in a defeated whimper so unlike Altair's usual calm baritone. His own voice raises into a wail as that virgin muscle tightens further, tearing his orgasm from him. He freezes as Altair drags his tongue over his scarred lips, and the sight of it draws Malik's release out a little longer, wringing him dry.

He gasps and just barely manages to brace himself on his arm so that he doesn't collapse. He looks down at Altair to see the blank mask he normally wears already in place, recognizes the time for honesty and vulnerability have passed, and he mourns the loss momentarily before withdrawing from the body beneath him and rolling to one side.

Beyond grabbing a nearby rag and wiping away the remnants of their coupling, Malik does not have much experience dealing with the aftermath of such trysts, so he lays back again and listens to their labored breathing fill the otherwise quiet bureau.

"That was…." Altair is still out of breath, and Malik takes pride in that.

"Worth it?" he smirks.

"Interesting," Altair allows. Malik rolls his eyes: as always he denies Malik his due. Another beat of silence, then: "Was it worth it to you?"

"What, having you moan my name like a whore?" Malik asks with vicious delight.

Altair, for once, is not goaded into repartee. "No. Giving up paradise."

"Paradise does not exist." Malik doesn't mean to sound so fatalistic, but he can't seem to help it.

"Then what happens after we die?"

"We fade away, or we are cast into jahannam if our sins are irredeemable." The words fall from his lips like a lesson learned in another lifetime. "I am not sure which is worse: an eternity of suffering, or of nothingness." Malik rolls over to face Altair. "I suppose I am confronted by the same choice even now." He runs thoughtful fingers from Altair's brow to his firm jawline. "To be alone, or to embrace sin."

The moment stretches out, longer and longer, and still the resignation lingers in Malik's eyes as he traces the other man's features. Altair would have never imagined feeling uncomfortable with silence, but it finally becomes too oppressive for even him.

"So you have cast yourself into perdition for me?" Altair asks, hoping to coax a smile, or at least a cutting remark, from the other man.

But Malik looks at him steadily, futility deepening the lines of his face. "Such has been my fate since Allah turned his back on me."

What a hellish existence, Altair thinks to himself, throwing an arm over his face, to reject the notion of paradise but be haunted by the certainty of damnation. He closes his eyes as if in sleep and feels Malik rise to walk to the small window of his room, perching himself on the sill.

Altair regards Malik quietly as the other faces away from him, his head bowed and lips shaping the same silent words over and over again. Altair knows he is poorly equipped to provide comfort of any kind; when faced with his rival's spiritual crisis, he is paralyzed and only able to watch the dai crumble from within.

Malik looks over from his seat to observe his rival, chest rising and falling steadily. Without his usual impassive stare, bathed in the faint illumination of the moon, he looks young, almost fragile. But unsullied.

The Flying One, this creature of light, cannot be brought low by Malik's sin. And he understands now that once is enough for Allah, but not for him.

shfrh mkhfyh - hidden blade